


Guardian Angel

by MelayneSeahawk



Series: Good Omens Kink Meme [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awake the Snake (Good Omens), Book Elements, Crowley Likes to Sleep, Good Omens Kink Meme, Good Omens Lockdown, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Show Elements, With Aziraphale Second-Guessing Himself a Lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: Crowley doesn't call in July, and Aziraphale goes to investigate
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Kink Meme [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535939
Comments: 11
Kudos: 133
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Guardian Angel

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/) on dreamwidth, prompt: [Crowley doesn't call when July starts, so Aziraphale goes to investigate (pre-relationship, no sex)](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/4446.html?thread=3151198#cmt3151198)
> 
> unbetaed, unBritpicked, we fall like Crowley

July 1st, 2020, and Aziraphale was  _ not _ sitting next to his phone, waiting for Crowley to call. No, he spent the first of the month reorganizing his tea rack, then reorganizing it again when he decided to arrange it by type rather than alphabetically. The second was spent making a rather labor-intensive pavlova, the meringue delicately shaped into a basket, complete with braided handle, the cavity filled with fresh berries and hand-whipped cream. The third through the fifth involved a complete dusting of the flat above the bookshop, done the human way, so that Aziraphale was never more than one room away from the phone.

By the following week, he had dusted the entire bookshop as well, rearranged the entire fiction section, and baked three more desserts. And still no call from Crowley.

Aziraphale dithered over it for another two days, and then he packed up the chocolate cappuccino cheesecake he’d made the day before and a bottle of Petite Sirah to match and headed off to Mayfair.

The door to Crowley’s flat opened when he touched the knob, and he thanked it quietly, stepping into the cool, dim recesses of the flat. He passed through the foyer and into the kitchen to put the cheesecake and the wine in the otherwise empty refrigerator. He’d only been in Crowley’s flat once before, the night after the world hadn’t ended but when they were still afraid their former employers would come for them. They had, of course, but Aziraphale and Crowley had gotten through it. And, like all the best things he’d done, Aziraphale realized, they had done it together.

He walked past the plant room, whose inhabitants were still verdant and terrified despite Crowley’s long nap. Aziraphale spent a moment greeting them, complimenting them on their lush leaves and beautiful growth, then continued through the flat. Everything was pristine and unlived-in, and Aziraphale hurried through the cold, austere living room to the bedroom.

Aziraphale had not been in Crowley’s bedroom the last time he was here, but he could sense Crowley’s presence behind the glass doors. They had spent that night sitting on the couch and drinking, brainstorming ideas for how to survive the inevitable reprisal from their bosses. The ultra-modern couch had been terribly uncomfortable, but Aziraphale had barely noticed it over the combined feelings of joy for what they’d accomplished and the fear of what would come next.

Aziraphale slid one glass door panel open and stepped inside the dim bedroom. Crowley was sprawled across the mattress, black silk pajamas blending into the equally dark bedding so that only his fiery hair and the pale skin of his hands and face were visible. But he looked fine, and Aziraphale released a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.

He’s a little hurt that Crowley is still asleep, that he didn’t wake up and call him like he’d said. But, he rationalized, maybe Crowley had just overslept! Or maybe he’d woken up, taken one look at the news on his phone, and written it off as a bad job and gone back to bed. Still, Aziraphale wished that Crowley had just  _ called _ him, even if just to tell him that he was going back to bed.

Aziraphale felt a little foolish, honestly, for turning down Crowley’s original suggestion to quarantine together. But the angel had been caught up in his baking, and without thinking had fallen back on old habits: deflect, demure, keep Crowley at arms length just in case someone might be watching. It wasn’t necessary any longer, of course, but old habits could be  _ very _ hard to break when you’d been around as long as they had.

He stepped into the dark room, hesitating at the foot of Crowley’s bed. The last time Crowley had taken a long nap--after their first fight about the holy water, all those years ago--Aziraphale hadn’t even known about it until after. But this time, he was here, in Crowley’s home, and he wasn’t sure if Crowley would see that as an invasion of his privacy or as a welcome addition. Aziraphale reached forward and touched Crowley’s ankle where his bare foot stuck out from under the covers. Crowley snorted and pulled his foot back in, but didn’t wake.

Leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him, Aziraphale stood in the center of the barren living room, looking around mournfully. He should probably go home, wait for Crowley to call him when he finally woke, but he didn’t want to be alone. He moved to settle on the still-uncomfortable couch to think.

Crowley had wanted them to quarantine together, that much was clear. But he’d suggested coming over to Aziraphale’s, not Aziraphale coming over to his. Was that because that was their habit, or was it because he didn’t want Aziraphale in his flat? True, Aziraphale was much more attached to his  _ things _ than Crowley seemed to be, but Aziraphale could bring everything from his books to his slippers to his favorite teapot to Crowley’s flat with barely more than a thought.

Would Crowley be glad to see him when he woke, or would he be angry?

After long moments of thought, Aziraphale decided that Crowley’s potential anger would be worth no longer having to face the loneliness of the empty bookshop. Decision made, Aziraphale stood and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

***

Tea made (and a slice of banoffee pie summoned from the creaky old refrigerator in the bookshop’s flat), Aziraphale settled at the kitchen bar to enjoy his treats and make a plan. He didn’t want to make a mess of Crowley’s kitchen like he had his own, but surely it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition if he were to bring some of his books to himself and read while he waited to Crowley to wake up. And! He could take care of the plants and keep the flat clean, and check Crowley’s mail, just like any friend might when the homeowner was...indisposed. Really, he would be doing Crowley a favor if he stayed.

(Yes, he knew this was a rationalization of the highest order, but he hoped that Crowley would find it endearing rather than annoying when he woke. He was used to the way Aziraphale rationalized things to himself, after some six thousand years of watching him do it, and Aziraphale was not above using that to his advantage.)

So, after polishing off the tea and pie, Aziraphale got to work, summoning a stack of the books he intended to read next to the coffee table in the living room and filling the fridge with food from his own, including a few of his more successful baking projects. He also materialized some creature comforts, when he sat down on Crowley’s unpleasant, stylish couch after cleaning up his dishes and crumbs: a few lovely throw pillows decorated with embroidery and tassels, and a cozy tartan blanket, since he didn’t want to adjust the temperature settings in the flat. Last, more tea and his unnecessary but delightful reading glasses, and he was content.

It went like that the first couple of days: Aziraphale making himself at home and reading on Crowley’s couch, with occasional breaks to get food and coo over the plants (he had promised himself he would look after them). But more and more, he found his attention scattered, drawn to where he knew Crowley was sleeping on the other side of those sliding glass doors.

Eventually, he told himself it wouldn’t do any harm to check on Crowley again, just to make sure everything was alright. He would just take a peek, like before, not even step into the room. He set down his book and reading glasses and went to do just that.

But when he slid the door open and looked inside, his conviction wavered. Crowley had shifted slightly in his sleep, and now one whole side of the bed was free, as if saved for someone. As if saved for Aziraphale. The part of him that had be strunk dumb after Crowley saved his books when the church had been bombed, the part of him that was even now only barely able to admit that he loved his best friend, and that had wanted things to change after the Apocanot but had been to afraid to take that step, quivered, and he could all but hear  _ mine, that’s my spot _ reverberate in his head.

He spun away from the door with a huff and went to the kitchen, forcing himself to go through the process of making tea the human way. Crowley had not invited him into his bedroom, not even when he’d invited Aziraphale to stay with him that night. It would be such an invasion of his privacy to even enter his bedroom, much less get into bed with him.

But then Aziraphale thought of the way they had collapsed onto the couch together, drinking wine and brainstorming how to survive whatever their now-former bosses had had in store for them. Aziraphale had gently miracled the soot and ash from Crowley’s skin and clothes, and they had sat so close together, knees occasionally brushing as they alternated between chattering excitedly and staring into the distance in silence. And! When they’d been on the bus together, they’d been pressed together all along one side, and Crowley hadn’t minded when an exhausted Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

Aziraphale took his tea back into the living room, staring through the open bedroom door to the shadowed room within. Resolutely, he walked back to the entryway, then stepped inside.

The lines of Crowley’s face were softened in sleep, and without the sunglasses he looked ever so young. They’d neither of them ever been young, not in the human sense, and they had never looked it, but Aziraphale knew that the last hundred and fifty or so years had dragged on Crowley, and the last eleven especially. It was good to see him relaxed, and Aziraphale hoped that, if he was dreaming, they were good dreams.

Making a decision, Aziraphale changed his daytime clothes for a pair of pajamas with a thought, then shifted his stack of books (rotated once already) from the coffee table to the bedside table on the unoccupied side of the bed. He slid into the bed, miracling up an extra pillow or two to support his back, and then opened his book, a little bit of miraculous light dancing across the tops of the pages so he could see. He glanced over quickly, but neither the light nor the moment seemed to have bothered Crowley. Aziraphale smiled, content in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, and lost himself in his book.

***

Aziraphale had no idea how long he’d sat there when he ran out of reading material the first time. He didn’t feel the need to get up and eat as much now, for whatever reason, and he was just so darn comfortable. He exchanged the stack of completed books for new ones, then jumped guiltily when Crowley shifted beside him.

Crowley made a hmm-ing noise and rolled over, the movement bringing him close to Aziraphale’s side. His eyes blinked open for a moment, but Aziraphale didn’t think he was awake. “Crowley?” he called softly, to check.

“Nnnn, angel,” Crowley said, a soft smile gracing his features. He squirmed closer, and to Aziraphale’s shock settled his cheek on the angel’s thigh.

Aziraphale froze, unsure what to do. Crowley wouldn’t do this if he were awake, would he? Would he be upset that Aziraphale had let him? But he was so warm from the blankets, and the weight of his head in Aziraphale’s lap felt  _ right _ . He wanted to reach down and stroke the flame-bright curl of Crowley’s hair, but decided that  _ that _ would be a step too far. Still, he let Crowley stay where he was, and opened a new book. And if he occasionally glanced down from his reading and smiled fondly, that was no one’s business but his own.

***

Crowley woke slowly, feeling warm and safe. But there was something off, something different than when he’d gone to bed. The pillow under his head shifted minutely every so often, and he was surrounded by a scent that didn’t belong: bergamot, vetiver, and just a hint of ozone; Aziraphale’s smells. He opened his eyes, convinced for a moment he was still dreaming.

But he didn’t seem to be, all evidence to the contrary. His head was pillowed in Aziraphale’s lap, and the angel was reading, dressed in a pair of ridiculous tartan pajamas, his fussy little reading glasses perched on his nose. He must have felt Crowley shift, because he looked down and smiled, brighter than any of the stars Crowley had ever made.

“Hello, darling, awake now?” he asked, as if any of this was normal.

“What time ‘s it?” Crowley asked. He shifted out of Aziraphale’s lap and sat up, and the angel’s face fell slightly.

Aziraphale squinted, and Crowley knew he was using some of his more angelic senses to observe the universe. “Mm, sometime in August, I think,” he said, closing and setting aside his book. “Sleep well?”

“When did you get here?” he asked, instead of answering. He looked around the room, but besides from the stack of books on the night table--and the angel in his bed--everything was as it should be.

“Oh, you didn’t call at the beginning of July, and I got worried,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with his ring. “I thought I’d come check on you and bring you some of my baking, but you were asleep. Then I decided to stay, keep an eye on the place while you were sleeping.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him, but for once the angel didn’t leap to justify or prevaricate. “Well, you’re welcome,” he said finally, after running a few possible responses through his head. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, lighting up again. It was almost blinding, that smile, but Crowley loved it. “Will you go back to sleep? There’s cheesecake and wine, but it can wait.”

“Mm, maybe,” Crowley said, stretching. He slithered back down the bed, curling up on his side. “Sorry about using you as a pillow, there.”

“Think nothing of it,” Aziraphale said. “You’re welcome to if, if you like.”

Crowley’s eyes widened in surprise. Still, not one to question good fortune, he scooched back over, settling his head in Aziraphale’s lap once more. He was just starting to drift off again when a hand brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Glancing up, he saw Aziraphale’s expression go a little hunted. Meeting his eyes, Crowley caught his flailing hand and, feeling oddly daring, brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the palm before settling it back on his hair.

Aziraphale smiled, brighter than Alpha Centauri, and Crowley fell back to sleep with a gentle, angelic hand petting his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog link](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/post/625006955289886720/guardian-angel-melayneseahawk-good-omens)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/)!


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